


Memories

by hutchynstarsk



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Gen, Memories, old photographs, school days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-15
Updated: 2012-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-03 17:49:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hutchynstarsk/pseuds/hutchynstarsk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pictures from childhood, and lots of teasing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memories

 

Memories

by Allie

 

 

The faded photograph shows several schoolchildren smiling broadly, gap-teethed and scruffy, arms flung round one another’s necks. They look like they’ve just come from a scuffle or are about to have one.

“That’s me,” says my partner, Raymond Doyle, tapping the boy on the end. His hair’s cut short, barely showing any curl. He looks knobby-kneed and scrawny. He’s the only one scowling at the camera, arms crossed. He stands straight and dangerous-looking even then, even that small. I should’ve recognised him.

“Was in a bad mood that day,” he explains. “Can’t remember why.”

I look at the photo, hold it up and squint one eye shut, tilting my head slightly. Then I lower it and look at him. Then back at the photo. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

He stares at me for one split second, mouth partway open as if he was getting ready to make excuses for something. Then his eyes spark. I recognise that look, and run.

He catches me in the lift, and we have a bit of a punch-up, like we’re still schoolboys blowing off steam.

I’m careful to stuff his picture in my pocket before he catches me up, though. Don’t want to see it ruined.

#

“Go on, then,” says my partner, Raymond Doyle, later when we’re off-duty. His legs are stretched out and his big shoes planted firmly on my coffee table. Which I just cleaned. Still, not wanting to go on about cleaning, I say nothing. I just slide a knit coaster closer to him so he won’t leave coffee rings on my table. My mother knitted them. Surprisingly, they really work, even if they don’t quite match the rest of my guns and girls decor.

“Go on what?” I ask.

My partner’s eyes flick towards me, green and calculating. Tricky lad, our Ray. Looks like he’s up to something.

“Show me a picture of you when you were little. Right tearaway, I bet you were.”

I snorted into my coffee. “Worse than you, mate? I bet you were a handful.”

“Still am.” Doyle’s eyelids lower to half-mast lazily. He puts his mug down—on the bare wood, ignoring the knit coaster—and stretches indolently, arms over his head.

“Right you are, old son.” I get up, carefully and pointedly lift the mug and put it on the knitting. I rub the wet ring he left with my sleeve, and then straighten. “It just so happens I do have a picture.” My mother sent it along with her knitting, along with a nostalgic letter about remembering me with skinned knees and the adventures I made up, pretending the old lot overgrown with weeds was Africa, and I was hunting tigers.

I stride into my bedroom, open my underwear drawer, and pull it out. I ought to organise, but I don’t keep many photographs. The SAS is pretty secretive, and I’m not always proud of my mercenary memories.

“Here you are. I was tall, dark, and handsome even then—and engagingly modest.” I smirk at him and hand over my picture. I watch Doyle.

“You’re in a suit,” says Doyle, blinking. “A bloody suit! How old are you?”

“Eleven. It was a Christmas recital. I was an announcer.” I puff my chest out, remembering how proud it felt to be eleven and command the attention of the whole church. Of course they never asked me to do it again, because I sort of embellished the story a little, but he doesn’t have to know that.

“Bloody hell.” He sounds impressed in spite of himself, as he hands the picture back. “I never got to do anything in front of people. I was the kid they always made sit in the back and sing in the choir, and keep me voice down, please.”

“Ah, but you have a lovely singing voice, Raymond.” I sit down next to him, feeling magnanimous in victory, and tuck the photo away, smiling at him.

“True,” says Ray, “but not when I was that age.”

“No?”

“No. My voice changed early. Couldn’t count on starting and finishing a sentence in the same octave. So you were the star, eh?”

I shrug modestly—and notice his mug is sitting again on the bare table. I point to it, and he looks at me as if to say, “What are you going to do about it?”

“You need a keeper, you do,” I say, picking it up again and wiping the wet spot.

“Oh yeah? You volunteering?”

“Already do the job, don’t I?”

He snatches the photo from my pocket with quick fingers. “I think I’ll just show this to Cowley next time he want a volunteer. Shows how civic minded you are, mate.”

I catch him in the kitchen.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
